IN    SIMILAR    FORM 

1 6mo,  Boards,  net  50c.  Leather,  net  $  1 .00 


Mary  Raymond   Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute 
The  Lifted  Bandage 

Maltbie  Davenport  Babcock 

The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Richard  Harding  Davis 
The  Consul 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Master  of  the  Inn 

Frederick  Landis 

The  Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

A  Christmas  Sermon 
Prayers  Written  at  Vailima 
Aes  Triplex 

Isobel  Strong 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 

The  Sad  Shepherd 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

(An  unpublished  portrait) 


ROBERT  LOUIS 
STEVENSON 


BY 


Isobel  Strong 

Joint  Author  with  Lloyd  Osbourne  of 
MEMORIES  OF  VAILIMA 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1911 


23E74- 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Scribner's  So?is 


PR 

54-^3 

F45" 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


ROBERT  LOUIS 
STEVENSON 

THE   CHILD 

a  3  *•  7V 

"OEFORE  R.  L.  S.  was  known  to 
the  world  as  a  writer,  the  name 
of  Stevenson  called  to  mind  the  light- 
houses that  guard  the  coast  of  Scot- 
land and  "open  in  the  dusk  their 
flowers  of  fire."  Twenty  sentinels 
they  stand,  built  upon  rocks  in  the 
midst  of.  angry  seas,  solidly  defying 
the  storms  of  the  North  while  bear- 
ing mute  testimony  to  the  daring 
skill  of  their  builders.  It  was  from 
these  brave  men  that  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson    inherited    his    name    and 

[3] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

his    courage.   He  wrote  in   "Under- 
woods": 

"Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined 
The  labours  of  my  sires  and  fled  the  sea, 
The  towers  we  founded  and  the  lamps  we 

lit, 
To  play  at  home  with  paper  like  a  child. 
But  rather  say:    In  the  afternoon  of  time 
A  strenuous  family  dusted  from  its  hands 
The  sand  of  granite,  and  beholding  far 
Along  the  sounding  coast  its  pyramids 
And  tall  memorials  catch  the  dying  sun, 
Smiled  well  content,  and  to  this  childish 

task 
Around    the    fire    addressed    its    evening 

hours." 

He  "played  with  paper"  to  such 
good  effect  that  now  the  name  of 
Stevenson  spells  romance,  courage 
against  all  odds,  and  the  bright  gos- 
pel of  hope. 

He  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the 
13th  of  November,  1850,  and  chris- 

[4] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

tened  Robert  Lewis  Balfour  Steven- 
son. The  spelling,  but  not  the  pro- 
nunciation, of  his  second  name 
was  changed  later  and  the  Balfour 
dropped. 

The  climate  of  his  native  land  was 
a  cruel  one  for  a  delicate  child — or 
perhaps  the  climate  made  the  child 
delicate.  At  any  rate,  the  story  of  his 
early  life  would  be  sad  reading  were 
it  not  for  the  radiance  of  his  spirit 
that  glowed  through  the  dull  clouds 
of  ill-health  like  a  burning  lamp. 
When  he  was  five  years  old  he  was 
asked  by  his  mother  what  he  had 
been  doing,  and  the  answer  is  the 
key-note  of  his  character:  "I  have 
been  playing  all  day,"  he  said,  "or 
at  least  I  have  been  making  myself 
cheerful." 

His    eager    eyes    looked    brightly 

[5] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

through  the  mist  of  pain  and  found 
charm  and  interest  in  everything 
about  him.  Through  his  rose-col- 
oured glasses  the  next-door  garden 
was  a  foreign  land;  he  heard  gallop- 
ing hoofs  in  the  wind  at  night,  and 
his  sick-bed,  touched  by  the  magic  of 
his  fancy,  changed  to  "The  Pleasant 
Land  of  Counter-pane."  "Once,"  he 
wrote,  "as  I  lay  playing  hunter,  hid 
in  a  thick  laurel,  and  with  a  toy  gun 
upon  my  arm,  I  worked  myself  so 
hotly  into  the  spirit  of  the  play  that 
I  think  I  can  still  see  the  herd  of  ante- 
lope come  sweeping  down  the  lawn 
and  round  the  deodar  —  it  was  al- 
most a  vision." 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  one 
can  imagine  the  "wee  laddie"  sitting 
by  the  fire,  his  head  leaning  on  his 
hand,  his  eyes  tightly  shut,  dreaming 

[6] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

of   fairy   lands,    of   forests,    and   the 
"rain-pool  sea,"  and  then 

"When  my  eyes  I  once  again 
Open  and  see  all  things  plain, 
High  bare  walls,  great  bare  floor, 
Great  big  knobs  on  drawer  and  door, 
Great  big  people  perched  on  chairs 
Stitching  tucks  and  mending  tears, 
Each  a  hill  that  I  could  climb 
And  talking  nonsense  all  the  time. 

O  dear  me 

That  I  could  be 
A  sailor  on  the  rain-pool  sea, 
A  climber  in  the  clover  tree, 
And  just  come  back,  a  sleepy-head, 
Late  at  night  to  go  to  bed." 

Mr.  Stevenson  explained  to  me  once, 
a  little  whimsically,  that  he  wrote 
his  books  with  the  faith  of  a  child 
playing  a  game.  He  believed  his 
characters  were  real  people,  and 
saw  them  as  clearly  as  the  herd  of 

[71 


V 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

antelope  galloping  across  his  grand- 
father's lawn.  If  he  once  discovered 
they  were  only  pen-and-ink,  his  story 
would  come  to  an  end.  He  said 
"an  author  must  live  in  a  book  as 
I  a  child  in  a  game,  oblivious  to  the 
world."  He  had  no  patience  with 
half-hearted  people.  Once  while  wait- 
ing in  a  drawing-room  he  saw  a 
small  boy  playing  boat  on  a  sofa.  The 
little  man  rowed  and  put  up  sail  and 
hauled  in  imaginary  ropes,  and  final- 
ly, tiring  of  the  game,  jumped  off  the 
make-believe  craft  and  walked  to  the 
door.  "Oh!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Steven- 
son reproachfully.  "For  God's  sake 
swim ! 

Though  little  Louis  was  an  only 
child,  he  had  cousins,  and  they  all, 
himself  included,  adored  "Auntie," 
his  mother's  sister,  Miss  Balfour,  of 

[8] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

whom  I  quote  this  interesting  de- 
scription: —  "I  have  mentioned  my 
aunt.  In  her  youth  she  was  a  wit  and 
a  beauty,  very  imperious,  managing, 
and  self-sufficient.  But  as  she  grew 
up  she  began  to  suffice  for  all  family 
as  well.  An  accident  on  horse-back 
made  her  nearly  deaf  and  blind,  and 
suddenly  transformed  this  wilful  em- 
press into  the  most  serviceable  and 
amiable  of  women.  There  were  thir- 
teen of  the  Balfours  as  (oddly  enough) 
there  were  of  the  Stevensons,  and  the 
children  of  the  family  came  home  to 
her  to  be  nursed,  to  be  educated,  to 
be  mothered,  from  the  infanticidal 
climate  of  India.  There  must  some- 
times have  been  half-a-score  of  us 
children  about  the  manse,  and  all 
were  born  a  second  time  from  Aunt 
Jane's    tenderness.    It    was    strange 

[9] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

when  a  new  party  of  these  sallow 
young  folk  came  home,  perhaps  with 
an  ayah.  This  little  country  manse 
was  the  centre  of  the  world,  and  Aunt 
Jane  represented  Charity.  The  text, 
my  mother  says,  must  have  been 
written  for  her  and  Aunt  Jane: 
'More  are  the  children  of  the  bar- 
ren than  the  children  of  the  married 
wile. 

A  happy  day  at  the  manse  was  too 
often  followed  by  illness,  and  then 
Alison  Cunningham  cared  for  the 
sick  boy.  To  her  he  wrote: 

"For  the  long  nights  you  lay  awake 
And  watched  for  my  unworthy  sake: 
For  your  most  comfortable  hand 
That  led  me  through  the  uneven  land: 
For  all  the  story-books  you  read, 
For  all  the  pains  you  comforted: 
For  all  you  pitied,  all  you  bore, 
In  sad  and  happy  days  of  yore: — 
[10] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

My  second  mother,  my  first  wife, 
The  angel  of  my  infant  life — 
From  the  sick  child,  now  well  and  old, 
Take,  nurse,  the  little  book  you  hold ! 

And  grant  it,  Heaven,  that  all  who  read 
May  find  as  dear  a  nurse  at  need, 
And  every  child  who  lists  my  rhyme 
In  the  bright  fireside  nursery  clime 
May  hear  it  in  as  kind  a  voice 
As  made  my  childish  heart  rejoice." 

In  after  years,  whenever  Stevenson 
spoke  of  his  childhood,  the  sick-room, 
the  wakeful  nights,  even  the  pain  he 
suffered,  served  merely  as  a  back- 
ground to  "  Cummy's"  rare  devotion. 
He  was  grateful  to  her  all  his  life.  He 
wrote  letters  to  her,  he  sent  her  copies 
of  all  his  books  as  they  came  out,  he 
had  her  to  stay  with  him  in  Bourne- 
mouth, and  even  proposed  sending 
for  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  Samoa. 
"  Cummie  was  full  of  life  and  merri- 

[11] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

ment.*  She  sang  and  danced  to  her 
boy  and  read  to  him  most  dramat- 
ically. She  herself  tells  how,  the  last 
time  she  ever  saw  him,  he  said  to  her 
before  a  room  full  of  people:  'It's 
you  that  gave  me  a  passion  for  the 
drama,  Cummie.'  'Me,  Master  Lou,' 
I  said.  'I  never  put  foot  inside  a 
play-house  in  all  my  life!'  'Ay, 
woman,'  said  he,  'but  it  was  the 
grand  dramatic  way  ye  had  of  recit- 
ing the  hymns!'  " 
Louis  Stevenson  was  one  of  the  few 
eople  who  recall  their  early  days. 
In  a  way  he  never  outgrew  them.  In- 
stead of  passing  through  the  phases 
of  childhood  and  youth,  he  went  on 
arrying  them  with  him  through  life, 
growing  richer  with  the  years.  In  "A 


*  Writes    Graham   Balfour   in    "Life    of    Robert 
Louis  Stevenson." 


[12] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Child's  Garden"  one  sees  how  vividly 
he  remembered,  for  that  book  was 
not  written  for  children;  it  was  the 
recollections  of  his  own  childhood 
put  into  verse: 

"But  do  not  think  you  can  at  all, 
By  knocking  on  the  window,  call 
That  child  to  hear  you.  He  intent 
Is  all  on  his  play-business  bent. 
He  does  not  hear,  he  will  not  look, 
Nor  yet  be  lured  out  of  this  book. 
For,  long  ago,  the  truth  to  say, 
He  has  grown  up  and  gone  away, 
And  it  is  but  a  child  of  air 
That  lingers  in  the  garden  there." 


[13] 


THE   YOUTH 

rp  HOUGH  Stevenson's  parents 
were  well  to  do  and  the  lad  was 
surrounded  by  every  comfort  and 
even  luxury,  the  odds  were  against 
him.  The  climate  of  his  native  land 
\  was  an  impossible  one,  that  made 
'  living  in  Edinburgh  a  constant  fight 
for  health;  but  his  father  would  not 
forego  his  ambition  to  make  his  son 
a  lighthouse  engineer.  The  boy  went 
obediently  to  Skerryvore,  and  the 
Bass  Rock  to  inspect  the  construc- 
tion of  the  works,  bringing  home,  not 
technical  knowledge,  but  romantic 
impressions  that  he  used  afterward 
in  his  books.  "David  Balfour's"  de- 

[14] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

script  ion  of  the  old  rock  shows  how 
clear  some  of  them  were.  'The 
strange  nature  of  this  place,  and  the 
curiosities  with  which  it  abounded, 
held  me  busy  and  amused.  ...  I 
.  .  .  continually  explored  the  surface 
of  the  isle  wherever  it  might  support 
the  foot  of  man.  The  old  garden  of 
the  prison  was  still  to  be  observed, 
with  flowers  and  pot-herbs  running 
wild,  and  some  ripe  cherries  on  a 
bush.  A  little  lower  stood  a  chapel 
or  a  hermit's  cell;  who  built  or 
dwelt  in  it,  none  may  know,  and 
the  thought  of  its  age  made  a  ground 
of  many  meditations.  .  .  .  There 
were  times  when  I  thought  I  could 
have  heard  the  pious  sound  of 
psalms  out  of  the  martyr's  dungeons, 
and  seen  the  soldiers  tramp  the 
ramparts    with    their   glinting    pikes 

[15] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

and    the  dawn   rising  behind    them 
9ut  of  the  North  Sea." 

Thomas  Stevenson  took  his  son  on 
many  wild  trips  about  the  North 
Coast  of  Scotland,  trying  to  interest 
him  in  the  profession  that  was  so  dear 
to  his  own  hearty  Stevenson  respected 
the  work  and  admired  his  father's 
share  of  it,  as  we  read  in  "Thomas 
Stevenson,   Civil  Engineer." 

"At  this  time  his  lights  were  in 
every  part  of  the  world,  guiding  the 
mariner;  his  firm  were  the  consulting 
engineers  to  the  Indian,  the  New  Zea- 
land, and  the  Japanese  lighthouse 
boards,  so  that  Edinburgh  was  a 
world  centre  for  that  branch  of  ap- 
plied science;  in  Germany  he  had 
been  called  'the  Nestor  of  light- 
house illumination';  even  in  France, 
where  his  claims  were  long  denied, 

[16] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

he  was  at  last,  on  the  occasion  of  the 
late  exposition,  recognised  and  med- 
alled." 

It  must  have  needed  a  great  deal  of 
courage  to  tell  such  a  man  that  his 
dearest  hopes  were  to  be  dashed  to 
the  ground.  Happily,  the  differences 
between  father  and  son  were  of  short 
duration,  and  they  became  in  later 
years  the  best  and  closest  of  friends. 
The  intense  interest  that  StevensonX 
took  in  people,  and  life,  and  birds, 
and  scenery,  his  constant  scribbling 
in  note-books,  seemed  to  his  father  a 

waste  of  time.  To  the  son,  the  study 
of  lighthouse  engineering  became  an 

impossibility,  and  he  finally  gave  it 

up  after  an  interview  that  must  have 

been  an  exceedingly  unhappy  one  for 

them  both. 

Colvin  describes  this  period  of  the 

[17] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

boy's  life  most  vividly:  "The  ferment 
of  youth  was  more  acute  and  more 
prolonged  in  him  than  in  most  men  of 
genius;  and  for  several  years  he  was 
torn  hither  and  thither  by  fifty  cur- 
rents of  speculation,  impulse  and  de- 
sire. ...  I  have  tried  to  give  some 
notion  of  the  many  various  strains 
and  elements  which  met  in  him  and 
which  were  in  these  days  pulling  one 
against  another  in  his  half-formed 
being,  at  the  great  expense  of  spirit 
and  body.  Add  the  storms,  which 
from  time  to  time  attacked  him,  of 
shivering  repulsion  from  the  climate 
and  conditions  of  life  in  the  city 
which  he  yet  deeply  and  imagina- 
tively loved.  .  .  .  the  seasons  of 
temptation  most  strongly  besetting 
the  ardent  and  poetic  temperament 
to  seek  escape  into  freedom  and  the 

[18] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

ideal  through  that  grotesque  back 
door  opened  by  the  crude  allurements 
of  the  city  streets;  the  moods  of  spir- 
itual revolt  against  the  harsh  doc- 
trine of  the  creed  in  which  his  parents 
were  deeply  and  his  father  even  pas- 
sionately attached." 

The  sensitive  lad  battled  gallantly 
with  fate.  "Does  it  not  seem  surpris- 
ing," I  quote  from  one  of  his  youth- 
ful letters,  "that  I  can  keep  the  lamp 
alight  through  all  this  gusty  weather 
in  so  frail  a  lantern  ?  And  yet  it  burns 
cheerily." 

He  took  life,  and  his  lessons,  pain 
and  play,  changes  from  one  school 
to  another,  lapses  into  illness  and 
consequent  travels  on  the  continent, 
everything  that  came  his  way,  in  a 
spirit  of  intense  appreciation  and  ab- 
sorbed interest. 

[19] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

None  of  the  experiences  of  his 
youth  were  wasted  or  forgotten. 
From  his  hot-headed  quarrels  with 
his  father  he  gathered  the  wisdom 
and  insight  to  write  "Crabbed  Age 
and  Youth,"  an  essay  that  has  helped 
many  a  parent  to  understand  his  son. 
His  long  tramps  over  the  Scottish 
heather  formed  material  for  the  most 
striking  chapter  in  "Kidnapped." 
He  paid  a  visit  to  an  uncle  in  the 
parish  of  Stow  on  which  he  after- 
ward drew  in  "Hermiston"  for 
knowledge  of  the  Lammermuirs.  The 
happy  adventurous  days  of  his  youth 
that  he  spent  exploring  the  Edin- 
burgh castle  were  minutely  remem- 
bered and  turned  to  good  account  in 
"St.  Ives."  He  used  the  scenery  of 
Brenner  Pass,  which  he  never  saw 
after    1863,   for   the    background    of 

[20] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

"Will  o'  the  Mill."  From  his  boyish  ; 
resentment  against  the  dogmas  and 
narrow  creed  of  his  elders  he  evolved 
the   broad,   kindly  tolerant,   hopeful 
faith  that  inspired  the  "Prayers." 

Through  the  turbulent  years  of  his 
youth  Stevenson  was  sustained  and 
upheld  by  a  stout  heart  "radiating 
pure  romance."]  He  was  like  the  lad- 
die with  a  lantern  under  his  coat  in 
the  game  he  described  so  well.  "We 
wore  them  buckled  to  the  waist  upon 
a  cricket  belt,  and  over  them,  such 
was  the  rigour  of  the  game,  a  buttoned 
topcoat.  They  smelled  noisomely  of 
blistered  tin;  they  never  burned 
aright  though  they  always  burned 
our  fingers ;  their  use  was  naught ;  the 
pleasure  of  them  merely  fanciful ;  and 
yet  a  boy  with  a  bull's  eye  under  his 
topcoat  asked  for  nothing  more!" 

[21] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

lie  was  indeed  a  strange  lad.  The 
savour  went  out  of  life  for  him  if  he 
could  "no  longer  see  satyrs  in  the 
thicket,  or  picture  a  highwayman 
riding  down  the  lane."  In  that  same 
essay,  "A  Retrospect,"  he  wrote:  "Et 
ego  in  Arcadia  vixit  would  be  no 
empty  boast  upon  my  grave.  If  I  de- 
sire to  live  long  it  is  that  I  may  have 
the  more  to  look  back  upon." 

"All  through  my  boyhood,"  he  ex- 
plained, "I  was  known  and  pointed 
out  for  a  pattern  of  an  idler,  and  yet 
I  was  always  busy  on  my  own  private 
end,  which  was  to  learn  to  write.  I 
kept  always  two  books  in  my  pocket, 
one  to  read,  one  to  write  in.  As  I 
walked  my  mind  was  busy  fitting 
what  I  saw  with  appropriate  words; 
when  I  sat  by  the  roadside,  I  would 
either  read,  or  a  pencil  and  a  penny 

[22] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

version  book  would  be  in  my  hand,  to 
note  down  the  features  of  the  scene 
or  commemorate  some  halting  stan- 
zas. Thus  I  lived  with  words." 


[23] 


THE   MAN 

V\7'ITH  his  heart  set  upon  liter- 
ature as  a  profession,  scrib- 
bling every  spare  moment  and 
writing  an  astonishing  number  of 
essays  (they  fill  a  large  volume  of  the 
"Edinburgh  Edition"),  it  must  have 
been  uphill  work  for  Stevenson  to 
put  his  mind  upon  engineering  at  all. 
However,  he  was  so  successful  as  to 
receive  a  medal  for  an  invention  of 
"A  New  Form  of  Intermittent  Light" 
and  was  commended  by  the  Royal 
Scottish  Society  of  Arts  for  his  paper 
on  that  subject. 

When,  in  1871,  his  father  allowed 
him  to  abandon  engineering,  offering 
the  law  as  a  compromise,  Louis  fell 

[24] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

upon  the  new  drudgery  with  such 
studious  fury  that  he  was  called  to 
the  Scottish  bar  in  July,  1875.  On  the 
25th  he  received  his  first  complimen- 
tary brief  and  the  next  day  he  sailed 
for  France.  That  his  attitude  of  mind 
was  well  understood  by  his  friends 
is  shown  by  a  letter  from  Fleeming 
Jenkin  congratulating  him,  not  upon 
entering  a  new  profession,  but  on 
"getting  rid  of  the  law  forever." 

By  this  time  the  young  man's  es- 
says were  beginning  to  attract  atten- 
tion, enough,  at  any  rate,  for  his 
father  to  feel  justified  in  giving  him 
an  allowance  with  full  permission  to 
follow  the  art  he  loved.  From  that 
moment  to  the  day  of  his  death  Stev- 
enson devoted  himself  to  literature 
with  a  passion  and  fervour  that  never 
failed.  He  had  won  out  against  all 

[25] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

odds  and  though  success  came  to 
him  slowly  it  came  surely.  He  who 
had  defended  idleness  so  valiantly 
knew  himself  when  he  said,  "I  have  a 
goad  in  the  flesh  continually  pushing 
me  to  work,  work,  work."  He  was 
never  without  a  pencil  and  a  note- 
book, never  so  happy  as  when  in  the 
full  tide  of  a  new  story  or  novel.  He 
loved  the  "ring  of  words"  and  the 
game  of  sorting  and  arranging  them 
to  fit  the  exact  meaning  of  his  mind. 
He  turned  to  letter-writing  as  a 
skilled  cabinet-maker  might  fashion 
an  elegant  toy — for  the  fun  of  using 
his  tools  skilfully.  In  long  hours  of 
sickness  and  enforced  rest  from  seri- 
ous work  he  scribbled  verses  to  pass 
the  time.  He  thought  so  little  of  these 
that  "The  Child's  Garden  of  Verse" 
and  "Underwoods"  would  not  have 

[26] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

been  printed  had  not  many  a  poem 
been  rescued  from  the  margins  of 
magazines,  the  fly-leaves  of  books 
he  was  reading,  and  even  the  waste- 
paper  basket. 

He  was  very  modest  about  his  work 
and  said  of  his  first  small  success:  "I 
begin  to  have  more  hope  in  the  story 
line  and  that  should  improve  my 
income."  He  laughed  incredulously 
when  a  friend  said  to  him,  "I  believe 
the  day  will  come,  Louis,  when 
people  will  speak  of  'Stevenson's 
Works.'  He  lived  long  enough  to 
hear  the  world  ringing  with  his  fame. 
When  the  "  Edinburgh  Edition  "  was 
in  course  of  preparation  he  wrote  to 
his  old  friend,  Charles  Baxter:  "Do 
you  remember — how  many  years  ago 
I  would  be  afraid  to  hazard  a  guess — 
one  night  when  I  communicated  to 

[27] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

you  certain  intimations  of  early  death 
and  aspirations  after  fame?  ...  If 
any  one  at  that  moment  could  have 
shown  me  the  'Edinburgh  Edition' 
I  suppose  I  should  have  died.  It  is 
with  gratitude  and  wonder  that  I  con- 
sider 'the  way  in  which  I  have  been 
led.'  Could  a  more  presumptuous  idea 
have  occurred  to  us  in  those  days 
when  we  used  to  search  our  pockets 
for  coppers,  too  often  in  vain,  and 
combine  forces  to  produce  the  three- 
pence necessary  for  two  glasses  of 
beer,  or  wander  down  the  Lothian 
Road  without  any,  than  that  I  should 
be  strong  and  well  at  the  age  of  forty- 
three  in  the  island  of  Upolu,  and  that 
you  should  be  at  home  bringing  out 
the  'Edinburgh  Edition'?" 

At  Vailima,  where  he  lived  the  last 
four  years  of   his  life,   the  monthly 

[28] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

mail  brought  up  the  mountain  trail 
on  a  pack-saddle  was  overflowing 
with  requests  for  his  autograph,  books 
from  young  authors  begging  for  a 
word  of  approval  from  "  the  Master," 
and  many  letters  from  the  brilliant 
and  successful  writers  of  the  day, 
French,  American,  and  English,  prais- 
ing his  latest  work  and  hailing  him 
generously  as  the  greatest  of  them  all. 
The  profession  of  letters  is  one  that 
is  singularly  free  from  jealousy,  as 
was  shown,  when  an  author  began  to 
make  himself  known,  by  the  enthusi- 
astic letters  from  fellow-writers  call- 
ing Stevenson's  attention  to  the  new 
star  on  the  horizon. 

Stevenson  fought  against  all  odds 
for  the  wife  of  his  choice  as  he  had 
done  for  his  profession.  From  the  first 
moment  he  met,  at  the  little  village  of 

[29] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Grez  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau, 
"  the  woman  for  whom  he  was  to  dare 
so  much,  to  receive  in  return*  such 
entire  devotion,  and  to  leave  in  prose 
and  verse,  and  in  his  uttered  words 
to  all  his  intimates,  a  tribute  such  as 
few  women  have  been  privileged  to 
receive,"  until  their  marriage  in  San 
Francisco  three  years  later,  he  sur- 
mounted one  obstacle  after  another. 
The  last  book  he  wrote  [that  was  left 
unfinished  by  his  sudden  death]  was 
dedicated  "To  my  Wife.' 


>> 


"I  saw  the  rain  falling  and  the  rain-bow 

drawn 
On   Lammermuir.   Hearkening,   I   heard 

again 
In  my  precipitous  city  beaten  bells 
Winnow    the    keen    sea-wind.   And   here 

afar, 
Intent  on  my  own  race  and  place  I  wrote. 

*W.  H.  Low,  "A  Chronicle  of  Friendships." 
[30] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Take  thou  the  writing;   thine  it  is.   For 

who 
Burnished  the  sword,  blew  on  the  drowsy 

coal, 
Held  still  the  target  higher;  chary  of  praise 
And  prodigal  of  counsel — who  but  thou  ? 
So  now  in  the  end;  if  this  the  least  be 

good, 
If  any  deed  be  done,  if  any  fire 
Burn  in  the  imperfect  page,  the  praise  be 

thine." 

This  is  to  the  critic,  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  influence  and  help  in  his 
literary  work. 

To  the  wife  he  wrote: 

"Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true, 
With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble-dew, 
Steel  true  and  blade  straight 
The  great  artificer  made  my  mate. 

Honor,  anger,  valor,  fire, 
A  love  that  life  could  never  tire, 
Death  quench,  or  evil  stir 
The  mighty  master  gave  to  her. 
[31] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Teacher,  tender  comrade,  wife, 
A  fellow  farer  true  through  life. 
Heart  whole  and  soul  free, 
The  August  Father  gave  to  me." 


[32] 


THE  TRAVELLER 

\\  7TIEN  Stevenson  found  himself 
free    to  go    where    he    would, 
he  took  the  first  road  that  offered — 
and  it  led  him  to  France. 

"Then  follow  you  wherever  lie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky 
Or  let  the  streams,  in  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  the  road. 

For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away!" 

He  and  his  friend,  Sir  Walter  Simp- 
son, a  young  fellow  of  his  own  age, 
took  a  canoeing  trip  that  he  described 
afterward   in   "An  Inland  Voyage." 

[33] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

He  enjoyed  it  all,  good  fortune  and 
ill,  wet  and  stormy  days  as  well  as 
fair,  and  only  stopped  to  commiserate 
a  poor  fellow  who  had  to  stay  behind. 
He  was  "the  driver  of  the  hotel  om- 
nibus; a  mean  enough  looking  little 
man,  as  well  as  I  can  remember;  but 
with  a  spark  of  something  human  in 
his  soul.  He  had  heard  of  our  little 
journey,  and  came  to  me  at  once  in 
envious  sympathy.  How  he  longed  to 
travel!  he  told  me.  How  he  longed  to 
be  somewhere  else,  and  see  the  round 
world  before  he  went  to  his  grave! 
'Here  I  am/  said  he;  'I  drive  to  the 
station.  Well.  And  then  I  drive  back 
again  to  the  hotel.  And  so  on  every 
day  and  all  the  week  round.  My  God, 
is  that  life ! '  I  could  not  say  I  thought 
it  was — for  him.  He  pressed  me  to 
tell  him  where  I  had  been  and  where 

[34] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

I  hoped  to  go;  and  as  he  listened  I 
declare  the  fellow  sighed.  Might  not 
this  have  been  a  brave  African  trav- 
eller, or  gone  to  the  Indies  after 
Drake?  But  it  is  an  evil  age  for  the 
gipsily  inclined  among  men.  He  who 
can  sit  squarest  on  a  three-legged 
stool,  he  it  is  who  has  the  wealth  and 
glory." 

After  many  days  of  adventure  they 
came  to  "La  Fere  of  Cursed  Mem- 
ory." Here  they  were  taken  for  ped- 
lars and  refused  a  night's  lodging,  to 
Stevenson's  fury.  "  For  my  part,"  he 
stormed,  "when  I  was  turned  out  of 
the  Stag  or  the  Hind,  or  whatever  it 
was,  I  would  have  set  the  temple  of 
Diana  on  fire  if  it  had  been  handy. 
There  was  no  crime  complete  enough 
to  express  my  disapproval  of  human 
institutions."  After  wading  about  in 

[35] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

the  dark  and  rain  for  hours  they  found 
"La   Croix  de   Malte,"   where  they 
were  received.  "  Little  did  the  Bazins 
know  how  much  they  served  us.  We 
were  charged  for  candles,  for  food  and 
drink,  and  for  the  beds  we  slept  in. 
But  there  was  nothing  in  the  bill  for 
the  husband's  pleasant  talk  nor  the 
pretty  spectacle  of  their  married  life." 
It  is  only  by  a  letter  to  a  friend  that 
one  learns  of  the  risks  he  took  with 
his  health,  and  even  that  is  written  in 
a  cheerful  vein.  "I  have  had  to  fight 
against  pretty  mouldy  health,  so  that, 
on  the  whole,  the  essayist  and  review- 
er has  shown,  I  think,  some  pluck. 
Four  days  ago  I  was  not  a  hundred 
miles  from  being  miserably  drowned, 
to  the  immense  regret  of  a  large  circle 
of  friends  and  the  permanent  impov- 
erishment of   British   Essayism   and 

[  36  ] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Reviewery.  My  boat  culbutted  me 
under  a  fallen  tree  in  a  very  rapid  cur- 
rent; and  I  was  a  good  while  before  I 
got  on  to  the  outside  of  that  fallen 
tree,  rather  a  better  while  than  I  cared 
about." 

His  next  journey  was  afoot,  his  com- 
panion a  donkey,  "a  love,  price  sixty- 
five  francs  and  a  glass  of  brandy." 
"His  love"  refused  to  move  beyond 
a  snail's  pace  until  a  passing  peasant 
taught  him  the  art  of  donkey  driv- 
ing and  gave  him  the  magic  word 
"proot."  "The  rogue  pricked  up  her 
ears  and  broke  into  a  good  round 
pace,  which  she  kept  up  without  flag- 
ging and  without  exhibiting  the  least 
symptoms  of  distress  as  long  as  the 
peasant  kept  beside  us."  When  his 
preceptor  left  and  they  ''started  to 
climb  an  interminable  hill  upon  the 

[37] 

2  3  2  74 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

other  side, '  proot '  seemed  to  have  lost 
its  virtue.  I  prooted  like  a  lion.  I 
prooted  mellifluously  like  a  sucking 
dove;  but  Modestine  would  be  neither 
softened  nor  intimidated.  She  held 
doggedly  to  her  pace."  Finally  an  inn- 
keeper made  Stevenson  a  goad  and 
all  went  well.  The  innkeeper's  wife 
understood  the  object  of  his  journey 
perfectly.  "She  sketched  at  what  I 
should  put  into  my  book  when  I  got 
home.  'Whether  people  harvest  or 
not  in  such  and  such  a  place;  if  there 
were  forests;  studies  of  names;  what, 
for  example,  I  and  the  Master  of  the 
house  say  to  you;  and  the  beauty  of 
nature  and  all  that.'  "  Such  is  the 
story  of  "Travels  with  a  Donkey" 
done  into  perfect  prose. 

A  far  different  journey  was  his  next 
one,  when  he  travelled  as  "An  Araa- 

[38] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

teur  Emigrant  to  California  Across 
the  Plains."  He  knew  France  well, 
spoke  the  language  fluently,  and  un- 
derstood the  customs  of  the  people. 
The  United  States  was  a  foreign  land. 

"With  half  a  heart  I  wander  here 
As  from  an  age  gone  by. 
A  brother— yet  though  young  in  years 
An  elder  brother,  I. 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine 
Though  both  were  English  born — 
I  towards  the  night  of  time  decline 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 

Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free 
But  age  must  still  decay — 
Tomorrow  for  the  States — for  me 
England  and  yesterday! 


■i 


It  was  not  until  after  ten  years  of  in- 
creasing illness,  after  he  had  vainly 
sought  health  in  Hyeres,  Davos- 
Platz,    Bournemouth,   and   the   Adi- 

[39] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

rondacks,  that  Fate,  suddenly  relent- 
ing, sent  him  to  the  South  Seas. 

"By  strange  pathways  God  hath  brought 
you  Tusitala. 
In  strange  webs  of  fortune  caught  you. 
Led  you  by  strange  moods  and  measures 
To  this  paradise  of  pleasures."* 

It  was  indeed  a  paradise  to  Steven- 
son, a  new  world  full  of  sunlight  and 
warmth,  romance,  and  strange  ad- 
venture. "The  first  experience  can 
never  be  repeated.  The  first  love,  the 
first  sunrise,  the  first  South  Sea  Is- 
land, are  memories  apart."  When  his 
yacht,  the  Casco,  plunged  its  an- 
chor into  the  waters  of  Nuka-hiva 
Bay,  "it  was  a  small  sound,  a  great 
event,"  Stevenson  wrote,  "but  my 
soul  went  down  with  these  moorings 

*  Edmund  Gosse  in  the  dedication,  "In  Russet 
and  Silver." 

[40] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

whence  no  windlass  may  extract  or 
diver  fish  it  up,  and  I,  and  some  part 
of  my  ship's  company  were  from  that 
hour  the  bond  slaves  of  the  isles  of 
Vivien." 

After  more  than  a  year  of  voyaging 
among  the  islands  he  moored  his  bark 
on  the  shore  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
them  all,  Upolu  of  the  Samoan  group. 
"For  here,"  he  declared,  "if  more 
days  are  granted  me  they  shall  be 
passed  where  I  have  found  life  most 
pleasant  and  man  most  interesting!" 


[41] 


THE   WRITER 

HPIIE  first  of  Stevenson's  -books 
to  make  a  success  was  "Treas- 
ure Island."  The  idea  of  the  story 
was  suggested  by  a  map  which  he 
drew  for  Lloyd  Osbourne,  his  step- 
son, "a  schoolboy  home  from  the 
holidays  and  much  in  need  of  some- 
thing craggy  to  break  his  mind  upon." 
"He  had  no  thought  of  literature;  it 
was  the  art  of  Raphael  that  received 
his  fleeting  suffrages;  ...  I  would 
sometimes  unbend  a  little,  join  the 
artist  (so  to  speak)  at  the  easel,  and 
pass  the  afternoon  with  him  in  a 
generous  emulation,  making  coloured 
drawings.  On  one  of  these  occasions, 

[42] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

I  made  the  map  of  an  island;  it  was 
elaborately  and  (I  thought)  beauti- 
fully coloured;  the  shape  of  it  took 
my  fancy  beyond  expression;  it  con- 
tained harbours  that  pleased  me  like 
sonnets;  and,  with  the  unconscious- 
ness of  the  predestined,  I  ticketed  my 
performance  'Treasure  Island.'''  He 
was  soon  at  work  writing  out  a  list  of 
chapters.  "It  was  to  be  a  story  for 
boys;  no  need  for  psychology  or  fine 
writing;  and  I  had  a  boy  at  hand  to 
be  a  touchstone.  ...  I  had  counted 
on  one  boy,  I  found  I  had  two  in  my 
audience.  My  father  caught  fire  at 
once  with  all  the  romance  and  child- 
ishness of  his  original  nature.  ... 
When  the  time  came  for  Billy  Bones's 
chest  to  be  ransacked,  he  must  have 
passed  the  better  part  of  a  day  pre- 
paring, on  the  back  of  a  legal  envel- 

[43] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

ope,  an  inventory  of  its  contents, 
which  I  exactly  followed;  and  the 
name  of  'Flint's  old  ship' — the  Wal- 
rus— was  given  at  his  particular  re- 
quest." 
"Treasure  Island"  was  dedicated  to 

Lloyd  Osbourne, 

An  American  Gentleman, 

In  accordance  with  whose  classic  taste 

The  following  narrative  has  been  designed. 

It  is  now  in  return  for  numerous  delightful 

hours 
And  with  the  kindest  wishes  dedicated 
By  his  affectionate  friend, 
The  Author. 

Prince  Otto  surrounded  by  his 
charming  court,  in  the  midst  of  ro- 
mance, mystery,  and  intrigue,  was 
the  first  modern  novel  laid  in  an 
imaginary  kingdom;  it  has  been  so 
widely  imitated,  that  one  loses  the 
effect  of  originality  which  so  startled 

[44] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

its  first  readers.  Stevenson  said  of 
this  book,  in  a  rather  mocking  hu- 
mour: "It  is  queer  and  a  little,  little 
bit  free;  and  some  of  the  parties  are 
immoral,  and  the  whole  thing  is  not 
a  romance,  nor  yet  a  comedy;  nor 
yet  a  romantic  comedy ;  but  a  kind  of 
preparation  of  some  of  the  element 
of  all  three  in  a  glass  jar."  But,  all 
the  same,  in  another  letter  he  wrote: 
"A  brave  story,  I  swear,  and  a  brave 
play,  too,  if  we  can  find  the  trick  to 
make  the  end."  And  his  heart  warms 
to  his  hero,  "my  poor,  clever,  feather- 
headed  Prince  whom  I  love  already." 
He  worked  hard  over  the  book,  de- 
scribing it  as  "a  strange  example  of 
the  difficulty  of  being  ideal  in  an  age 
of  realism." 

There    is    a    beautiful    passage    in 
"Prince  Otto"  that  is  often  quoted. 

[45] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

The  Princess  had  been  wandering  in 
the  woods  all  night.  "At  last  she 
began  to  be  aware  of  a  wonderful 
revolution,  compared  to  which  the 
fire  of  Mitt  Walden  Palace  was  but 
the  crack  and  flash  of  a  percussion- 
cap.  The  countenance  with  which  the 
pines  regarded  her  began  insensibly 
to  change;  the  grass,  too,  short  as  it 
was,  and  the  whole  winding  staircase 
of  the  brook's  course,  began  to  wear 
a  solemn  freshness  of  appearance. 
And  this  slow  transfiguration  reached 
her  heart,  and  played  upon  it,  and 
transpierced  it  with  a  serious  thrill. 
She  looked  all  about;  the  whole  face 
of  nature  looked  back,  brimful  of 
meaning,  finger  on  lip,  leaking  its 
glad  secret.  She  looked  up.  Heaven 
was  almost  emptied  of  stars.  Such  as 
still  lingered  shone  with  a  changed 

[46] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

and   waning  brightness,   and   began 
to  faint  in  their  stations. 

"And  the  colour  of  the  sky  itself  was 
the  most  wonderful ;  for  the  rich  blue 
of  the  night  had  now  melted  and 
softened  and  brightened;  and  there 
had  succeeded  in  its  place  a  hue  that 
has  no  name,  and  that  is  never  seen 
but  as  the  herald  of  the  morning. '  O,' 
she  cried,  joy  catching  at  her  voice; 
'O  it  is  the  dawn!' 

Stevenson  was  in  Saranac  when  the 
idea  came  to  him  for  the  story  of 
"The  Master  of  Ballantrae."  "It  was 
winter,  the  night  was  very  dark;  the 
air  extraordinarily  clear  and  cold, 
and  sweet  with  the  purity  of  forests." 
He  had  been  reading  the  "Phantom 
Ship."  "'Come,'  said  I  to  my  engine; 
'  let  us  make  a  tale,  a  story  of  many 
years  and  countries,  of  the  sea  and  the 

[47] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

land,  savagery  and  civilisation.' :  He 
tells  us  that  "On  such  a  fine  frosty 
night,  with  no  wind  and  the  thermom- 
eter  below  zero,  the  brain  works  with 
much  vivacity;  and  the  next  moment 
I  had  seen  the  circumstance  trans- 
planted from  India  and  the  tropics 
to  the  Adirondack  wilderness  and  the 
stringent  cold  of  the  Canadian  bor- 
der." 

In  the  dedication  to  Sir  Percy  and 
Lady  Shelley  he  tells  the  strange  story 
of  its  writing:  "Here  is  a  tale  which 
extends  over  many  years  and  travels 
into  many  countries.  By  a  peculiar 
fitness  of  circumstance  the  writer  be- 
gan, continued  it,  and  concluded  it 
among  distant  and  divers  scenes. 
Above  all,  he  was  much  upon  the  sea. 
The  character  and  fortune  of  the  fra- 
ternal enemies,  the  hall  and  shrub- 

[48] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

bery  of  Durrisdeer,  the  problem  of 
MacKellars  homespun  and  how  to 
shape  it  for  superior  flights;  these 
were  his  company  on  deck  in  many 
star  reflecting  harbours,  ran  often 
in  his  mind  at  sea  to  the  tune  of 
slatting  canvas,  and  were  dismissed 
(something  of  the  suddenest)  on  the 
approach  of  squalls.  It  is  my  hope 
that  these  surroundings  of  its  manu- 
facture may  to  some  degree  find 
favour  for  my  story  with  sea-farers 
and  sea-lovers  like  yourselves. 

"And  at  least  here  is  a  dedication 
from  a  great  way  off;  written  by  the 
loud  shores  of  a  subtropical  island 
near  upon  ten  thousand  miles  from 
Boscombe  Chine  and  Manor;  scenes 
which  rise  before  me  as  I  write  along 
with  the  faces  and  voices  of  my 
friends."  , — 

[49] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

The  list  of  his  complete  writings 
would  be  a  long  one,  including  as 
they  do,  the  wide  range  of  essays, 
fables,  critical  reviews,  plays,  trav- 
els, romances,  memoirs,  verses,  and 
novels. 

The  book  that  made  the  greatest 
sensation,  that  sold  forty  thousand 
copies  in  England  and  over  a  quar- 
ter of  a  million  in  America,  is  "The 
Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde."  It  is  an  allegory  written  in 
the  form  of  a  story  that  has  been 
played  in  theatres  and  preached  in 
churches.  A  slim  book  in  size  but 
great  in  power,  that  leaves  the  reader 
thrilled  with  horror,  not  only  at  the 
monster  Hyde  but  at  the  possibilities 
of  evil  in  one's  own  heart. 


[50] 


THE  TEACHER 

OTEVENSON  was  one  of  the  first 
to  teach  the  optimistic  doctrine 
of  life.  "The  disease  of  pessimism," 
he  declared,  "springs  never  from 
real  troubles,  which  it  braces  a  man 
to  bear,  which  it  delights  men  to  bear 
well.  Nor  does  it  readily  spring  at 
all  in  minds  that  have  conceived  of 
life  as  a  field  of  ordered  duties  not 
as  a  chase  in  which  to  hunt  for  grati- 
fications." 

He  upheld  "gentleness  and  cheer-  N^ 
fulness,  these  come  before  all  moral- 
ity ;  they  are  the  perfect  duties.  If  your 
morals  make  you  dreary  depend  upon 
it  they  are  wrong.  I  do  not  say  'give 
them  up,'  for  they  may  be  all  you 

[51] 


■^ 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

have;  but  conceal  them  like  a  vice, 
lest  they  should  spoil  the  lives  of  bet- 
ter and  simpler  people." 

"Noble  disappointment,  noble  self- 
denial  are  not  to  be  admired,  not  soon 
to  be  pardoned  if  they  bring  bitter- 
ness." "Nature  is  a  good  guide 
through  life,  and  the  love  of  simple 
pleasures  next,  if  not  superior  to, 
virtue." 

'There  is  no  duty  we  so  much  un- 
derrate as  the  duty  of  being  happy. 
By  being  happy  we  sow  anonymous 
benefits  upon  the  world,  which  re- 
main unknown  even  to  ourselves,  or 
when  they  are  disclosed,  surprise  no 
body  so  much  as  the  benefactor." 
"A  happy  man  or  woman  is  a  better 
thing  to  find  than  a  five-pound  note. 
He  or  she  is  a  radiating  focus  of  good- 
will; and  their  entrance  into  a  room 

[52] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

is  as  though  another  candle  had  been 
lighted."  These  are  inspiring  words, 
and  they  go  far  and  sink  deep  coming 
from  a  man  like  Stevenson  whose  pul- 
pit was  a  sick-bed;  who  had  linked 
arms  with  Pain  and  smiled  in  the  face 
of  Death.  He  encouraged  you  "by  all 
means  to  finish  your  folio;  even  if  the 
doctor  does  not  give  you  a  year;  even 
if  he  hesitates  about  a  month,  make 
a  brave  push  and  see  what  can  be  ac- 
complished in  a  week.  It  is  not  only 
in  finished  undertakings  that  we 
ought  to  honour  useful  labour.  A 
spirit  goes  out  of  the  man  who  means 
execution  which  outlives  the  most 
untimely  ending.  All  who  have  meant 
good  work  with  their  whole  hearts 
have  done  good  work  although  they 
may  die  before  they  have  time  to  sign 
it.  Every  heart  that  has  beat  strong 

[53] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

and    cheerfully    has    left    a   hopeful 
impulse  behind  it  in   the  world  and  ' 
bettered  the  traditions  of  mankind." 
'  To  be  honest,  to  be  kind,  to  earn  a 
little  and  spend  a  little  less,  to  make 
upon  the  whole  a  family  happier  for 
his  presence,  to  renounce,  when  that 
shall  be  necessary  and  not  to  be  em- 
bittered, to  keep  a  few  friends,  but 
these     without     capitulation — above 
all,  on  the  same  grim  conditions,  to 
keep   friends    with   himself — here  is 
a  task  for  all  that  a  man  has  of  forti- 
tude and  delicacy."  "  Etre  et  pas  avoir 
to    be   not    to    possess — that   is    the 
problem  of  life.  To  be  wealthy  a  rich 
nature    is    the    first    requisite,    and 
money  but  the  second.  To  be  of  a 
quick  and  healthy  blood,  to  share  in 
all  honourable  curiosities,  to  be  rich 
in  admiration  and  free  from  envy,  to 

[54] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

rejoice  greatly  in  the  good  of  others, 
to  live  with  such  generosity  of  heart 
that  your  love  is  still  a  dear  possession 
in  absence  or  unkindness — these  are 
the  gifts  of  fortune  which  money  can- 
not buy  and  without  which  money 
can  buy  nothing." 

He  tells  us  that  "a  man  is  not  to 
expect  happiness,  only  to  profit  by  it 
gladly  when  it  shall  arise;  he  is  on 
duty  here ;  he  knows  not  how  or  why, 
and  does  not  need  to  know ;  he  knows 
not  for  what  hire,  and  must  not  ask. 
Somehow  or  other,  though  he  does 
not  know  what  goodness  is,  he  must 
try  to  be  good;  somehow  or  other, 
though  we  cannot  tell  what  will  do 
it,  he  must  try  to  give  happiness  to 
others." 

"Mankind  is  not  only  the  whole  in 
general,  but  every  one  in  particular. 

[55] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Every  man  or  woman  is  one  of  man- 
kind's dear  possessions;  to  his  or  her 
just  brain,  and  kind  heart,  and  ac- 
tive hands,  mankind  intrusts  some  of 
its  hopes  for  the  future;  he  or  she  is 
a  possible  well-spring  of  good  acts 
and  source  of  blessings  to  the  race." 
He  does  not  preach  only  to  the  wise 
or  the  clever  or  the  great ;  he  declares 
that  "the  man  who  has  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve,  and  a  good  whirling  weath- 
ercock of  a  brain,  who  reckons  his 
life  as  a  thing  to  be  dashingly  used 
and  cheerfully  hazarded,  makes  a 
very  different  acquaintance  of  the 
world,  keeps  all  his  pulses  going  true 
and  fast,  and  gathers  impetus  as  he 
runs,  until,  if  he  be  running  towards 
anything  better  than  wildfire,  he  may 
shoot  up  and  become  a  constellation 
in   the  end."   And  then  "when  the 

[50] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

time  comes  that  he  should  go  there 
need  be  few  illusions  left  about  him- 
self. Here  lies  one  who  meant  well, 
tried  a  little,  failed  much; — surely 
that  may  be  his  epitaph,  of  which  he 
need  not  be  ashamed,  nor  will  he 
complain  at  the  summons  which  calls 
a  defeated  soldier  from  the  field;  de- 
feated, ay,  if  he  were  Paul  or  Marcus 
Aurelius! — but,  if  there  is  still  one 
inch  of  fight  in  his  old  spirit,  undis- 
honoured.  The  faith  which  sustained 
him  in  his  lifelong  blindness  and 
lifelong  disappointment  will  scarce 
even  be  required  in  this  last  formality 
of  laying  down  his  arms.  Give  him  a 
march  with  his  old  bones;  there,  out 
of  the  glorious  sun  coloured  earth, 
out  of  the  day  and  dust  and  the  ec- 
stacy — there  goes  another  Faithful 
Failure!" 

[57] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

'If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain ; — 
Lord,  Thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  Thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in!': 


[58] 


THE   FRIEND 

OTEVENSON  had  the  gift  of 
making  friends,  for  "there  was 
that  about  him,"  says  Graham  Bal- 
four, "that  he  was  the  only  man  I 
have  ever  known  who  possessed 
charm  in  high  degree,  whose  char- 
acter did  not  suffer  from  the  pos- 
session. The  gift  comes  naturally  to 
women,  and  they  are  at  their  best  in 
its  exercise.  But  a  man  requires  to  be 
of  a  very  sound  fibre  before  he  can 
be  entirely  himself  and  keep  his  heart 
single,  if  he  carries  about  with  him  a 
talisman  to  obtain  from  all  men  and 
all  women  the  object  of  his  heart's 
desire.  Both  gifts  Stevenson  pos- 
sessed, not  only  the  magic  but  also 

[59] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

the  strength  of  character  to  which  it 
was  safely  intrusted." 

That  he  was  utterly  unconscious  of 
possessing  any  such  attribute  is  shown 
by  a  fragment  written  in  his  youth, 
describing  the  three  wishes  of  his 
heart:  "First,  good  health;  secondly, 
a  small  competence;  thirdly,  O  du 
Lieber  Gott  friends!"  They  came  in 
answer  to  that  call  by  the  thousands, 
many  of  them  his  readers  who  had 
never  known  the  man  Stevenson. 
Even  his  intimate  and  personal 
friends  were  many,  from  all  walks  in 
life,  rich  and  poor,  philosopher  and 
fisherman,  white  and  brown.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  he  should  have  had 
such  friends  as  Sidney  Colvin,  pro- 
fessor of  arts;  Edmund  Gosse,  poet; 
Will  H.  Low,  painter,  and  nearly  all 
the  prominent  writers  of  his  day,  but 

[60] 


IN  THE  LIBRARY  AT  VAILIMA,  DICTATING}  TO  MRS.  STRONG 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

every  one  who  ever  came  in  contact 
with  him,  man  or  woman,  that  per- 
son was  his  friend  for  life,  even 
imitating  his  mannerisms  and  tricks 
of  speech — his  landladies,  bell-boys, 
hotel  porters,  innkeepers. 

It  was  at  Monterey  that  he  first 
met  Simoneau.  In  "the  old  Pacific 
capital,"  he  said,  "of  all  my  private 
collection  of  remembered  inns  and 
restaurants — and  I  believe  it,  others 
things  being  equal,  to  be  unrivalled — 
one  particular  house  of  entertainment 
stands  forth  alone.  I  am  grateful,  in- 
deed, to  many  a  swinging  sideboard, 
to  many  a  dusty  wine-bush;  but  not 
with  the  same  kind  of  gratitude.  Some 
were  beautifully  situated,  some  had  an 
admirable  table,  some  were  the  gath- 
ering places  of  excellent  companions; 
but  take  them  for  all  in  all,  not  one 

[61] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

can  be  compared  with  Simoneau's  at 
Monterey." 

Stevenson  was  taken  ill  there  and 
the  Frenchman  visited  and  befriended 
him,  "a  most  pleasant  old  boy  with 
whom  I  discuss  the  universe  and  play 
chess  daily."  In  after  years,  as  each 
of  his  books  came  out,  a  copy  with 
an  inscription  was  sent  to  Simoneau 
till  the  old  man  had  a  complete  set 
of  first  editions,  besides  many  letters 
and  photographs.  His  restaurant  had 
failed,  and  he  supported  himself  by 
selling  "tamales"  on  the  street,  and 
though  he  was  offered  a  very  hand- 
some sum  of  money  for  his  Steven- 
son books  and  letters  he  refused  to 
part  with  them.  Mrs.  Stevenson,  in 
grateful  recognition  of  the  old  man's 
loyalty,  was  able  to  make  his  declin- 
ing years  comfortable,  hastened  to  his 

[62] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

bedside  when  he  died,  and  erected  a 
handsome  tombstone  to  his  memory. 

Every  doctor  who  ever  attended 
Stevenson  became  his  friend;  to  his 
admiration  of  the  medical  practi- 
tioner and  his  personal  gratitude 
we  owe  the  beautiful  dedication  to 
"Underwoods"  that  begins: 

"  There  are  men  and  classes  of  men 
that  stand  above  the  common  herd; 
the  soldier,  the  sailor,  and  the  shep- 
herd not  unfrequently;  the  artist 
rarely;  rarelier  still,  the  clergyman; 
the  physician  almost  as  a  rule.  He  is 
the  flower  (such  as  it  is)  of  our  civil- 
isation. .  .  .  Generosity  he  has,  such 
as  is  possible  to  those  who  practice 
an  art,  never  to  those  who  drive  a 
trade;  discretion,  tested  by  a  hundred 
secrets;  tact,  tried  in  a  thousand  em- 
barrassments; and,  what  are  more  im- 

[63] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

portant,  Herculean  cheerfulness  and 
courage.  So  it  is  that  he  brings  air  and 
cheer  into  the  sick-room,  and  often 
enough,  though  not  so  often  as  he 
wishes,  brings  healing." 

Tembinok,  the  last  King  of  the  Gil- 
bert Islands,  was  a  friend  for  whom 
Stevenson  had  a  profound  admira- 
tion. He  describes  their  leave-takinp- 
in  his  South  Sea  book:  "As  the  time 
came  for  our  departure   Tembinok 
became   greatly    changed;    a    softer, 
more  melancholy,  and,  in  particular, 
a  more  confidential  man  appeared  in 
his  stead.  To  my  wife  he  contrived 
laboriously  to  explain  that  though  he 
knew  he  must  lose  his  father  in  the 
course  of  nature,  he  had  not  minded 
nor  realised  it  till  the  moment  came; 
and  now  that  he  was  to  lose  us,  he  re- 
peated the  experience.   ...  'I  very 

[64] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

sorry  you  go,'  he  said  at  last.  'Miss 
Stlevens  he  good  man,  woman  he 
good  man,  boy  he  good  man;  all  good 
man.  Woman  he  smart  all  same  man. 
My  woman,'  glancing  toward  his 
wives, '  he  good  woman  no  very  smart. 
I  think  Miss  Stlevens  he  big  chiep  all 
the  same  cap'n  man-o'-war.  I  think 
Miss  Stlevens  he  rich  man  all  same 
me.  All  go  schoona.  I  very  sorry.  My 
patha  he  go,  my  uncle  he  go,  my 
cutcheons  he  go,  Miss  Stlevens  he  go: 
all  go.  You  no  see  King  cry  before. 
King  all  the  same  man;  feel  bad,  he 
cry.  I  very  sorry.'  " 

On  one  of  the  South  Sea  Voyages 
Stevenson  and  his  party  were  de- 
tained at  a  native  village  two  months. 
The  Chief,  Ori  a'  Ori,  sent  a  farewell 
letter  when  they  left  that "  as  for  me," 
Stevenson  said,  "I  would  rather  have 

[65] 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

received  it  than  written  'Redgauntlet' 
or  the  *  Sixth  ^Eneid.'  "  This  is  the 
translation : 

"I  make  you  to  know  my  great 
affection.  At  the  hour  when  you  left 
us,  I  was  filled  with  tears;  my  wife, 
Rui  Telime,  also,  and  all  of  my  house- 
hold. When  you  embarked  I  felt  a 
great  sorrow.  It  is  for  this  that  I  went 
upon  the  road,  and  you  looked  from 
that  ship,  and  I  looked  at  you  on  the 
ship  with  great  grief  until  you  had 
raised  the  anchor  and  hoisted  the  sails. 
When  the  ship  started  I  ran  along  the 
beach  to  see  you  still ;  and  when  you 
were  on  the  open  sea  I  cried  out  to 
you,  'Farewell,  Louis,'  and  when  I 
was  coming  back  to  my  house  I 
seemed  to  hear  your  voice  crying, 
'Rui,  farewell.'  Afterward  I  watched 

[66] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

the  ship  as  long  as  I  could  until  the 
night  fell,  and  when  it  was  dark  I 
said  to  myself,  'If  I  had  wings  I 
should  fly  to  the  ship.'  I  will  not  for- 
get you  in  my  memory.  Here  is  the 
thought.  I  desire  to  meet  you  again. 
It  is  my  dear  Teriitera  (Stevenson) 
makes  the  only  riches  I  desire  in  this 
world.  It  is  your  eyes  I  desire  to  see 
again/It  must  be  that  your  body  and 
my  body  shall  eat  together  at  one 
table;  there  is  what  would  make  my 
heart  content.  But  now  we  are  sepa- 
rated. May  God  be  with  you  all.  May 
His  word  and  His  mercy  go  with  you, 
so  that  you  may  be  well  and  we  also, 
according  to  the  words  of  Paul. 

"Ori  a'  Obi." 

I  have  not  the  space  to  tell  the  story 

of   the  Princess   Moe   of  Tahiti,   of 

[67] 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

Tati  Salmon  with  whom  Stevenson 
made  brothers  in  the  island  fashion, 
of  the  beautiful  Princess  Kaiulani 
that  he  knew  "in  the  April  of  her 
age  and  at  Waikiki  within  easy  walk 
of  Kaiulani' s  banyan,"  of  the  French 
fisherman  of  Monterey  whom  he  met 
at  Marseilles  after  many  years  and 
entertained  at  his  hotel,  of  Mother 
Mary  Anne  of  saintly  memory,  of 
the  blind  white  leper  at  Molokai, 
of  the  Captains  and  Supercargoes  of 
the  many  ships  on  which  he  sailed, 
of  mad,  handsome,  romantic  "Tin 
Jack,"  original  of  "Tommy  Had- 
don"  in  "The  Wrecker";  of  the  Mis- 
sionaries, Protestant,  Catholic,  Mor- 
mon, and  Wesley  an,  for  these  are  a 
few  only  of  the  many  friends  of  him 
who  said,  "If  we  find  but  one  to 
whom  we  can  speak  out  of  our  heart 

[68] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

freely,  with  whom  we  can  walk  in 
love  and  simplicity  without  dissimula- 
tion, we  have  no  ground  of  quarrel 
with  the  world  or  God." 


[69] 


THE  POET 

CTEVENSON  was  not  only  able 
to  express  his  thoughts  in  beau- 
tiful language,  he  was  born  with  a 
poet's  soul,  and  nature  spoke  to  him 
as  to  an  intimate.  Of  a  pleasant 
French  landscape  he  wrote:  "From 
time  to  time  a  warm  wind  rustled 
down  the  valley  and  set  all  the  chest- 
nuts dangling  their  branches  of  foli- 
age and  fruit;  the  ear  was  filled  with 
rustling  music  and  the  shadows 
danced  in  tune." 

A  passing  phase  of  beatitude 
brought  forth  this  charming  expla- 
nation: "some  thoughts,  which  sure 
would  be  the  most  beautiful,  vanish 
before    we    can    rightly    scan    their 

[70] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

faces;  as  though  a  God  travelling 
by  our  green  highways  should  but 
ope  the  door,  give  one  smiling  look 
into  the  house,  and  go  again  forever. 
Was  it  Apollo,  Mercury,  or  Love 
with  folded  wings?  Who  shall  say? 
But  we  go  the  lighter  about  our  busi- 
ness and  feel  peace  and  pleasure  in 
our  heart." 
He  found  exquisite  beauty  in 

"Every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew — bediamonded," 

and  frosts  that 

"enchant  the  pool 
And  make  the  cart-ruts  beautiful." 

To  him  the  world  was  full  of  ro- 
mance. It  was  his  birthright 

"to  hear 
The  great  bell  beating  far  and  near — 
[71] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

The  odd  unknown,  enchanted  gong 
That  on  the  road  hales  men  along. 
That  from  the  mountain  calls  afar, 
That  lures  the  vessel  from  a  star 
And  with  a  still  aerial  sound 
Makes  all  the  earth  enchanted  ground." 

The  little  verses  from  "A  Child's 
Garden  "  brighten  many  of  the  school 
books  in  England  and  America  with 
their  pleasant  lessons  of  happiness  in 
simple  things: 

"How  do  you  like  to  go  up  in  a  swing 
Up  in  the  air  so  blue  ? 
Oh  I  do  think  it  the  pleasantest  thing 
Ever  a  child  can  do!" 

and  such  gentle  admonitions  as — 

"A  child  should  always  say  what's  true 
And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to, 
And  behave  mannerly  at  table; 
At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able." 

For   the   comfort   of   sick   children 

[72] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

there  was  never  anything  more  brave 
and  beautiful  than 

'The  Land  of  Counterpane." 

And  all  of  us,  old  and  young,  are  bet- 
ter for  the  motto  that  hangs  in  many 
a  nursery,  sewing-room,  office,  and 
workshop : 

'The  World  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things 
I  am  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as 


kinirs 


»s 


The  "Ballads,"  that  include  many 
of  the  legends  of  Tahiti  done  into 
verse,  was  dedicated  to  the  Chief  Ori 
a'  Ori: 

"Ori  my  brother  in  the  island  mode, 
In  every  tongue  and  meaning  much  my 

friend, 
This  story  of  your  country  and  your  clan, 
In  your  loved  house,  your  too  much  hon- 
oured guest, 

[73] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

I  made  in  English.  Take  it,  being  done; 
And  let  me  sign  it  with  the  name  you  gave, 
Teritera." 

In  "Underwoods"  many  of  his  best 
and  most  serious  poems  are  found 
both  in  Scotch  and  English;  but  in 
"  Songs  of  Travel"  Stevenson  touches 
a  gayer,  lighter  note  that  breathes 
of  returning  health  and  the  salt  sea 
breezes. 

"I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for 

your  delight 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine 

at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace,  fit  for  you  and  me, 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at 

sea. 
I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep 

your  room 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright 

blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep 

your  body  white 
[74] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dew-fall  at 
night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one 
else  is  near 

The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to 
hear: 

That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  ad- 
mire 

Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the 
road-side  fire." 

Many  of  the  verses  in  "The  Child's 
Garden"  and  "Songs  of  Travel" 
have  been  set  to  music: 

"Bright  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them. 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 

Still  they  are  carolled  and  said — 
On  wings  they  are  carried — 

After  the  singer  is  dead 
And  the  maker  buried. 

Low  as  the  singer  lies 
In  the  field  of  heather, 
[75] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Songs  of  his  fashion  bring 
The  swains  together. 

And  when  the  west  is  red 
With  the  sunset  embers, 

The  lover  lingers  and  sings 
And  the  maid  remembers." 


[76] 


THE   CHIEF 

AFTER  more  than  ten  years  of 
the  sick-room,  his  "horizon  four 
walls,"  it  is  not  strange  that  Steven- 
son should  have  loved  Samoa,  where 
he  found  comparative  health  and  was 
able  to  live  out-of-doors.  His  let- 
ters to  his  friends  were  enthusiastic. 
"I  wouldn't  change  my  present  in- 
stallation for  any  post,  dignity, 
honour,  or  advantage  conceivable 
to  me.  It  fills  the  bill.  I  have  the 
loveliest  time."  "This  is  a  hard  and 
interesting  and  beautiful  life  we  lead 
now."  "Our  fine  days  are  certainly 
fine  like  Heaven;  such  a  blue  of  the 
sea,  such  green  of  the  trees,  and  such 
crimson  of  the  hibiscus  flowers  you 

[77] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

never  saw;  and  the  air  as  mild  and 
gentle  as  a  baby's  breath — and  yet 
not  hot."  "The  sea,  the  islands,  the 
islanders,  the  island  life  and  climate 
make  and  keep  me  truly  happier." 

To  his  old  friend  Colvin  he  wrote: 
"After  breakfast  I  rode  home.  Con- 
ceive such  an  outing,  remember  the 
pallid  brute  that  lived  in  Skerryvore 
like  a  weevil  in  a  biscuit,  and  receive 
the  intelligence  that  I  was  rather  the 
better  for  my  journey.  Twenty  miles 
ride,  sixteen  fences  taken,  ten  of  the 
miles  in  a  drenching  rain,  seven  of 
them  fasting  and  in  the  morning  chill, 
and  six  stricken  hours'  political  dis- 
cussion by  an  interpreter;  to  say 
nothing  of  sleeping  in  a  native  house 
at  which  many  of  our  litterati  would 
have  looked  askance  in  itself." 

In   a   speech   to   an   assemblage  of 

[78] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Samoan  chiefs  Stevenson  said:  "I 
love  Samoa  and  her  people.  I  love  the 
land.  I  have  chosen  it  to  be  my  home 
while  I  live  and  my  grave  after  I  am 
dead,  and  I  love  the  people  and  have 
chosen  them  to  be  my  people  to  live 
and  die  with." 

He  bought  a  tract  of  land,  built  a 
large  house  which  he  furnished  from 
his  old  home  in  Bournemouth  and 
his  father's  place  in  Edinburgh,  gath- 
ered his  family  about  him,  and  lived 
like  a  country  gentleman  with  many 
horses,  a  dairy,  vegetable  gardens, 
acres  of  pineapples,  bananas  and 
cacao,  the  grounds  laid  out  with  ten- 
nis courts  and  beautified  by  tropical 
trees  and  flowers.  One  of  his  prayers 
breathes  the  atmosphere  of  Vailima. 
"We  thank  Thee  for  this  place  in 
which   we   dwell;  for   the   love   that 

[79] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

unites  us;  for  the  peace  accorded  us 
this  day;  for  the  hope  with  which  we 
expect  the  morrow ;  for  the  health,  the 
work,  the  food,  and  bright  skies  that 
make  our  lives  delightful;  for  our 
friends  in  all  parts  of  the  earth  and 
our  friendly  helpers  in  this  foreign 
isle.  Give  us  courage  and  gaiety  and 
the  quiet  mind.  Spare  to  us  our 
friends,  soften  to  us  our  enemies. 
Bless  us,  if  it  may  be,  in  all  our  inno- 
cent endeavours.  If  it  may  not,  give 
us  the  strength  to  encounter  that 
which  is  to  come,  that  we  be  brave 
in  peril,  constant  in  tribulation,  tem- 
perate in  wrath,  and  in  all  changes  of 
fortune,  and  down  to  the  gates  of 
death,  loyal  and  loving,  one  to  an- 
other." 

He  described  the  house  in  one  of 
his  letters  as  "three  miles  from  town, 

[80] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

in  the  midst  of  great  silent  forests. 
There  is  a  burn  close  by,  and  when 
we  are  not  talking  you  can  hear  the 
burn,  and  the  birds,  and  the  sea 
breaking  on  the  coast  three  miles 
away  and  six  hundred  feet  below  us." 
Stevenson  worked  in  the  mornings, 
usually  by  dictation,  which  made  his 
correspondence  and  novels  much  less 
trying  to  his  strength.  He  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  government  of  the 
country  and  outlined  a  policy  that 
has  since  been  adopted  with  success 
by  the  Germans  in  their  occupation 
of  Upolu  and  Savaii.  He  rode  a  good 
deal  on  his  brown  horse,  Jack,  and 
was  one  of  the  "hounds"  in  a  cross- 
country paper  chase;  he  paid  visits 
to  the  other  islands,  studied  the 
Samoan  language,  read  until  late 
nearly    every    night,    and    often    at- 

[81] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

tended  the  entertainments  given  by 
the  men-of-war  or  townspeople  at 
the  Apia  Public  Hall,  where  he  joined 
in  the  dance  which  he  described  as 
"a  most  fearful  and  wonderful  qua- 
drille; I  don't  know  where  the  devil 
they  fished  it  from,  but  it  is  rackety 
and  prancing  and  embraciatory  be- 
yond words;  perhaps  it  is  best  defined 
in  Haggard's  expression  as  a  gam- 
bado." 

Stevenson  had  been  shut  in  from 
the  world  for  so  many  weary  years 
that  he  loved  to  keep  open  house; 
Vailima  was  the  scene  of  numerous 
entertainments,  balls,  dinners,  tennis 
parties  on  the  lawn,  and  no  holiday, 
English,  American,  or  Samoan,  was 
allowed  to  pass  without  an  appro- 
priate celebration. 

At  Christmas  time  the  house  would 

[82] 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

be  filled  with  guests  for  several  days, 
dancing,  playing  charades  and  games, 
and  there  was  always  an  old-fash- 
ioned Christmas  tree  loaded  with 
gifts.  The  first  cotillon  ever  seen  in 
Samoa  was  held  at  Vailima  in  honour 
of  Washington's  birthday.  There  was 
a  dinner  to  all  the  English  officers  and 
officials  in  town  on  the  occasion  of 
Queen  Victoria's  jubilee.  The  thir- 
teenth of  November,  the  anniversary 
of  Stevenson's  birth,  was  celebrated 
by  a  grand  feast  given  in  the  native 
fashion,  the  chiefs  and  their  families 
arriving  early  in  the  day  with  pres- 
ents of  turtles,  kava  root,  fans,  model 
canoes,  rings,  live  pigs  carried  on 
poles,  and  rolls  of  tapa  and  fine 
mats. 

The  midshipmen  and  officers  of  the 
men-of-war  in  port,  the  various  offi- 

[83] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

cials  of  England,  Germany  and  the 
United  States,  the  missionaries  and 
their  wives,  the  Samoan  chiefs  with 
their  families  and  retainers,  passing 
tourists,  even  the  sailors  on  their 
liberty  day  ashore,  all  found  a  wel- 
come at  Vailima. 

He  who  said  "it  is  better  to  lose 
life  like  a  spendthrift  than  to  waste 
it  like  a  miser.  It  is  better  to  live 
and  be  done  with  it  than  die  daily 
in  the  sick-room"  was  spared  the 
horror  of  a  lingering  illness. 

In  the  best  health  he  had  ever  en- 
joyed; in  the  midst  of  his  work  on 
"Weir  of  Hermiston,"  that  he  be- 
lieved to  be  his  masterpiece,  with 
those  he  loved  most  around  him,  his 
plans  laid  for  weeks  ahead,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  powers,  in  the  forty- 
fourth  year  of  his  age,  the  end  came 

[84] 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

suddenly  and  painlessly  by  a  stroke 
of  apoplexy. 

He  died  at  ten  minutes  past  eight  on 
Monday  evening  the  third  of  Decem- 
ber, 1894. 

He  lay  as  though  asleep,  on  a  nar- 
row couch  in  the  middle  of  the  great 
hall.  The  Union  Jack  that  flew  above 
Vailima  was  lowered  and  draped  over 
the  body.  All  through  the  night, 
as  the  sad  news  spread  about  the 
island,  parties  of  Samoans  came  to 
pay  their  last  respects  to  the  truest 
friend  they  had  ever  known. 

He  had  chosen  Mount  Vaia  to  be 
his  last  resting-place ;  the  pathway  up 
the  steep  hillside  through  the  jungle 
was  cut  in  the  night  by  forty  loyal 
Samoans,  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  he  was  laid  to  rest. 

"Nothing  more  picturesque  can  be 

[  85  ] 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

imagined*  than  the  narrow  ledge  that 
forms  the  summit  of  Mount  Vaia,  a 
place  no  wider  than  a  room  and  flat  as 
a  table.  On  either  side  the  land  de- 
scends precipitately;  in  front  lie  the 
vast  ocean  and  the  surf-swept  reefs; 
to  the  right  and  left  green  mountains 
rise,  densely  covered  with  the  prime- 
val forest."  On  this  spot  the  tomb 
was  built  that  took  several  months  in 
the  making;  it  is  of  solid  blocks  of 
cement  welded  together  in  a  noble 
design  with  two  large  bronze  tablets 
let  in  on  either  side.  One  bears  the 
inscription  in  Samoan,  "The  resting 
place  of  Tusitala,"  followed  by  the 
quotation  (in  the  same  language), 
"Thy  country  shall  be  my  country 
and  thy  God  my  God."  On  the  other 

*  Lloyd  Osbourne  in  "A  Letter  to  Mr.  Stevenson's 
Friends." 

[86] 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

side  are  the  name  and  dates  and  the 
requiem : 

"Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
'Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be. 
Home  is  the  sailor  home  from  the  sea 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill.'  " 


[87] 


c/l 


fl> 


i-ANCEl 


l\r\l\  I  U/t 


•#1 


University  ol  California.  Los  Angel 


lllllllllllllll 

L  005  490  511   2 


2?  L.    _TK  <~> 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  367  573    3 


%K 


